


The Twice-Purloined Cow-Creamer

by ScriboScribere



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-07 15:16:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14673791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriboScribere/pseuds/ScriboScribere
Summary: Before embarking for South Africa, Raffles and Bunny undertake one last job.  Apologies to P.G. Wodehouse for stealing his cow-creamer motif.





	The Twice-Purloined Cow-Creamer

Our passage (second class) was already booked; our affairs put in order; our trunks nearly packed. In a week, Raffles and I were to leave England, bound for Cape Town. There we intended to enlist in any handy regiment of irregulars who would have us, and join in the fight against what Mrs. Shound, our kindly but not over-bright landlady, unfailingly referred to as "them wild Bores."

Our only handicap in undertaking this adventure was our lack of ready money. At Raffles's request, I'd visited the usual receivers, bent on converting into cash every item of plunder, down to the last silver spoon, that either of us still possessed. But as I told Raffles indignantly after, I got for them nothing like what the things were actually worth. "The villains kept referring to 'recent losses at the front' as though it was their patriotic _duty_ to cheat me," I complained.

"That kind have a subtle genius for detecting desperation," Raffles replied. "When they sense the least anxiety in a customer, they cut their offers by ninety percent." Then he added, "What do you say to one last job then, Bunny?"

I frankly disliked the idea, not caring to take a chance on being apprehended and charged as a thief just as I was about to embark upon a more honest style of life. But– "What else can we do?" I sighed.

 

That night, therefore, we rode our bicycles along the quiet back alleys of Richmond toward nearby Wimbledon.

Our object was a house called "Luxor", as the plate on the gatepost clearly stated– a fact of which, I realize in retrospect, I should have taken more notice. It was a large property, and doubtless once very fine; but in recent years the streets adjacent to the grounds had been widened to accommodate increased traffic in the area, and as a result the gardens had suffered a sad diminishment. The fence that had once kept passers-by at a comfortable distance from the house had been moved to a mere ten feet from the drawing-room windows, and were so poorly set that Raffles and I were able without much effort to move palings aside to allow not only ourselves, but our bicycles entry to the grounds. Leaving the machines well-concealed in an overgrown lilac, we made easy entry through the front door.

Aside from a flickering candle--a "burglar's horror"--burning in the vestibule, the house was completely dark. The inhabitants, Raffles had earlier told me, were a single elderly gentleman and his similarly-aged servants, all of whom kept early hours. Though Raffles might prefer a job presenting more of a challenge, I was quite happy to believe that we would be out quickly, and with loaded pockets.

As often when Raffles and I were on a job, I found the candle on the hall table not a horror at all, but a useful friend. By its light I could clearly make out the shapes of armchairs and parlor-tables in the room on my right; I therefore surmised that the dining-room would be on the left of the passage. Leaving Raffles inspecting with his hooded torch some small object that had caught his fancy (clearly of rough stone, and therefore valueless, as far as I could see), I advanced cautiously to a pair of sliding doors; and, moving them slightly apart, I peered within.

What I saw made me catch my breath.

"Here!" I whispered hoarsely, gesturing to my friend. "Look at this!"

Carefully replacing a stone object on its little bracket, Raffles met me and briefly shone his light upon the silver-table. The collection of plate there was far finer than any I had seen before in a modest suburban abode.

Gently, I pushed the doors wider, wincing at their creaking.

Raffles caught my arm.

Shaking his head, he whispered, "That's not what we came for, old man." He led me to a room further down, which a flash of his torch revealed was the library.

I knew we were not after books. The only truly valuable books are the rare ones; and a rare book is a readily identifiable property not easily disposed of by the usual means. Therefore I naturally concluded that somewhere in the room must be a safe. After looking to be certain that the window-blinds were drawn I began cautiously to circle the room, peering nervously behind the pictures.

After a few moments of eager searching alone, I found myself becoming rather irritated with Raffles. Instead of helping me, he seemed to have become engrossed by what he saw in the glass curio-cases scattered about the room. There were many of these, both large and small; but their contents, I judged, were historical rather than pecuniary in value, and so did not interest me.

Sidling up to Raffles, I murmured, "Well, _I_ can't find it. It must be behind the books somewhere, and all the shelves are full to bursting. I hope you have some clue as to where to look, or we'll search all night!"

Replied Raffles excitedly, thrusting something before my face, "Just look at _this_ , Bunny; _Old Kingdom_. Four thousand years old, and as perfect as on the day it was made!"

"Yes, yes," I said impatiently, barely glancing at what he held. "Very nice. The safe, A.J.?"

"Still," Raffles continued, replacing the object with apparent regret in its case , "it's too fragile for my purpose. I don't care to risk its destruction. –Something like this instead, perhaps," he suggested, taking up another object and holding it close to his light.

I looked.

"That's one of those little things the Egyptians used to bury with people, isn't it?" I asked without interest. "Unwrap a mummy, and dozens of them fall out."

"You mean a _shabti_ ," Raffles informed me. "–Do you know this house, Bunny? Professor M________ lives here." (Here he named a noted Egyptologist, whom it would not be wise for me to specify, of course.) "Who can say what great Pharaoh's tomb this might have come from?"

"Look, just tell me where the safe's likeliest to be," I pressed. "Then I'll clear away the books and things, and get the place ready for you."

Still ignoring me, Raffles held out another object for my inspection, wanting to know what I thought of it.

This item, at least, was of gold.

"It's small, and it's broken," I pointed out. "I doubt it'd be worth ten bob."

"Oh, we couldn't get more _money_ for it than that, if that's what you mean," Raffles said, in a rather dreaming tone. "But as to its worth– ! Why, it's priceless, old man!"

"Yes, yes. The _safe_ , A.J. Where's the _safe_?"

"What safe?" asked Raffles absently. "–Which one do you think speaks most loudly of immortality, Bunny? The _shabti_ , which may have lain in the breast of an entombed pharaoh for all we know? Or this _ankh,_ which is the very symbol of everlasting life?" He seemed to consider for a moment; then laid the strange looped-top cross back in its case. "I don't really believe in _that_ sort of immortality anyway," he said.

"Take the _shabti_ , then," I whispered, "and come and find the safe."

"Or _this_ ," breathed Raffles in reply, paying me no attention at all, but eagerly reaching to lift another glass cover from yet another case. "Ah, yes! _This!_ "

I almost moaned aloud.

"Another old broken bit of stone!" I complained. "I want stones, too; but sparkling ones, preferably set in heavy gold. –For heaven's sake, take whatever you want, Raffles; but then let's get to _work_."

"This is the one," replied Raffles gravely. "It's right that it's broken. It's ‘a shattered visage ', complete with ‘frown, and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command '. -I'd characterize that expression as a ‘sneer of cold command '; wouldn't you?"

"Unquestionably. Put it in your pocket now, and come on."

Unheeding, Raffles continued thoughtfully, "You remember ‘ _Ozymandias_ ', Bunny? I could never understand Shelley's point of view. He speaks familiarly of Ozymandias, clearly anticipating that any literate person will know the name and something of the ‘works' that the ‘mighty' are invited to look upon; and yet somehow old Percy thinks his poem will impress us with the _vanity_ of life! I'll tell you what it impressed _me_ with: The idea that if one did a great thing or two in one's lifetime, one might be remembered even two or three thousand years hence! _That's_ immortality! –That's the nearest thing to it that _we'll_ ever know, anyway."

"Are you finished?" I whispered, coldly.

"All finished," he agreed.

"Then let's find that safe."

Raffles glanced about himself rather blankly. "There's no safe that I know of," he told me. " _This_ is what I came for."

" _That_?" I cried– though softly, of course. "That broken bit of two-thousand-year-old _nothing_?"

Replied Raffles, in a slightly hurt tone, "It's not _nothing_. –And for your information, it's nearer _four_ thousand years old, than two."

I studied my friend for a moment. He seemed quite serious. Perhaps I was underestimating the item in question.

"All right," I said dubiously. "What's it worth, then? More than that silver in the dining room?"

"Infinitely more," Raffles warmly assured me. "I told you: It's priceless. I'm going to carry it in my pocket, Bunny. At the Cape, whenever I feel it there, it'll remind me to conduct myself in such a way that _I_ may be remembered four thousand years hence. With such a spur to my soul as _that_ , I feel ready to take on the entire Boer Army!"

I sighed. Apparently there was no safe; we had not come for any silver; and Raffles was perfectly content to come away from the house with nothing more than the broken face of a small stone figure in his pocket.

"Give me the torch," I said heavily. " _I_ don 't want any old stone face. _I'm_ going back to the dining room."

 

In the matter of silver, Raffles had long ago taught me to be discriminating in what I took. Large silver articles are apt to be both clumsy and conspicuous to carry. Accordingly, I lifted each of the smaller, more manageably-sized pieces individually, judging their relative weights in my hand, and turned over the likeliest ones to ascertain with the torch that they were properly hallmarked as sterling. There were many choice pieces, and I had difficulty deciding between them.

So absorbed was I in my work that the sudden chime of a clock on a nearby bracket unfortunately made me start, and the small but heavy salver I had just been assessing seemed to leap from my nerveless fingers. The salver collided noisily with a tureen; and the tureen in turn bumped into a _very_ large tray propped precariously on its edge. Then all three – as well as several smaller pieces – crashed loudly to the floor. Raffles's hand gripped my arm like a vice, and the two of us stood frozen, listening for any sound from the direction of the kitchen, or the rooms above.

For a moment, the house was silent.

Then, even as Raffles was drawing a breath of relief, a cracked old voice shouted from somewhere overhead, "Hoy, there! Thieves! By Jove, there're thieves in my house!" and sudden footsteps echoed on the stairs.

Raffles started away at once, pulling me behind him, but I was determined not to be denied. Putting out my hand, I seized blindly the first object my fingers touched. I could not identify it; it seemed very oddly shaped. But it was cold, like silver; and even in the dark showed a silvery glint. I was satisfied. Best of all, the item fit into my pocket; and there I was putting it as my friend and I bolted, shoulder to shoulder, through the door.

"Blast it, where's my gun?" the voice behind us – now much nearer – wanted to know.

I glanced back to see an elderly gentleman, wild locks of white hair projecting from under his nightcap, produce from the drawer of the hall table what appeared to be an old-fashioned pepper-box revolver. This he brandished; and then, exhibiting a vigor not often met with in someone of his age, he thundered down the passage after us, loudly calling to his servants. The old fellow ran so well, his red-flannel nightgown flying up at every step to display a pair of knobby knees, that before Raffles and I were half-way across the lawn, the old man had already made it onto the porch. Stopping there to take aim, he fired.

"Are you hit?" I cried to Raffles.

"Bunny, the only way anybody could possibly hit us with _that_ pistol would be by discharging all five barrels at once," A.J. replied grimly, leaping upon his bicycle and pushing off strongly. "Let's hope the old fellow doesn't think to do it."

The old fellow did. Just as we were starting down the street, I heard first a roar; then the patter of pellets striking around us; and my Sunbeam shuddered beneath me. Glancing back, I saw (to my entire satisfaction) that the recoil of the gun had knocked the old fellow in the night-shirt cleanly off his feet. Down he went with a grunt, hard upon his rump. The household servants by now were streaming out, and Raffles and I left them solicitously helping the old fellow to rise, ignoring his heated demands that they should follow and apprehend us. The rear tyre of my bicycle, meanwhile, went slowly flat; but I continued determinedly on until we were well clear of "Luxor". Only then did I stop to inspect the damage.

Raffles pointed to where a bullet had pierced my bicycle's rear fender and embedded itself in the wheel. "Good thing that didn't come in a foot or two higher, old man," he said, grinning. "Let's put the bicycles into the garden-shed for tonight, and tomorrow we'll mend that before anyone sees it."

Sighing, I pulled from my pocket what I had taken from the silver-table. It was not large, and seemed very little recompense for the trouble I'd had in getting it. "I hope this will cover the expense of the new tyre at least," I sighed.

–Then I stopped, struck momentarily dumb by what I had in my hand. "Good heavens, A.J.," I said blankly. "What on earth is _this_?"

What I held appeared to be a rendering in hollow silver of the result of unholy congress between a cow and a corgi. The creature had short, thick legs; a sneering mouth; and a long rope-like tail, twisted to form a kind of handle. On its back it bore an impossibly outsized fly. I thought the thing hideous, and said so.

Raffles laughed.

"Haven't you ever seen a cow-creamer before, Bunny?" he asked, taking the thing from me and turning it about in his hands with apparent affection. "It's a nice one, too. Eighteenth century, and English. Most of them are Dutch, so a true English article is apt to be quite valuable."

I stared at him. "I can't imagine why it would fetch anything beyond the worth of the silver it's made from," I said. "Is it actually meant to hold cream at the table? Flies, I admit, are inseparable from dairies; and all too common in the dining room, too– especially in summer. But why would anyone want to be reminded of _that_?"

Still smiling, Raffles gave me back my creamer and started again toward our lodgings. "You'll like it better when you see what you're offered for it," he said. "Put it somewhere really safe. –And by safe, I mean _not_ under your mattress."

"Why not under my mattress?" I inquired stiffly. I was privately convinced that there was no place in the world better for hiding something than under my mattress.

Replied Raffles earnestly, "Because believe me, Bunny, that's the very _first_ place any thief would look."

 

Next day, when our landlady had gone marketing, Raffles and I went out also– to buy a replacement tyre for my bicycle. Raffles wore a false mustache, and affected a limp.

Suggested he, as we started off, "I think we should get well out of this neighborhood before buying what we need, on the chance that Professor M_____ was aware that one of his shots hit home last night. If he reported it to the police, they might be watching the local bicycle-shops to see who's suffered recent damage to his machine."

I agreed to this, of course; but a consequence of so much caution was that our errand, though minor, took us several hours to accomplish.

When we returned at last, there was a pair of constables at our lodgings, waiting for us.

–Or so for one terrible moment, I imagined. Before I could act on my immediate impulse to run, Raffles caught my arm.

"I don't think this has anything to do with last night, Bunny," he murmured. "Surely they'd be watching the road for our return, if they really meant to take us into custody."

Raffles was right, of course. Looking more carefully I could see that the bobbies, notebooks in hand, were wholly engrossed by our landlady, who appeared to be weeping.

In point of fact, I am even more frightened of a woman's tears than I am of constables. "What should we do?" I asked uneasily.

After thinking for a moment, A.J. said, "Well, they mustn't see _me_ , certainly. You go in and find out what's going on. I'll creep into the shed and do something about that bullet-hole and tyre. –And remember that if anybody brings up the topic of bicycles, we both own ‘Swifts'!"

 

As soon as I came through the door, our landlady threw herself sobbing against my chest.

"Oh, Sir," she cried brokenly, dabbing at her eyes. "We've been robbed!"

I patted her back awkwardly; and then, seeing that her own handkerchief was already soaked, I handed her mine, into which she promptly and noisily blew her nose.

"That horrible man!" she exclaimed then. "It was him that did it!"

Confused, I asked, "What man?"

"That horrible one! That one I saw!" Seeking for a dry spot on what had until that moment been my favorite handkerchief, Mrs. Shound had another vigorous blow before continuing. "Coming down the path he was," she babbled, "just as I turned in at the gate. I didn't think nothing of it at the time, though he did have a face like a ferret. But when I come into the house, it was all of a shambles, and all my nice things was gone!"

As she then began to cry again, it fell to the constables to explain that a thief (though whether he was the briefly-glimpsed "ferret-faced man" or some other, they were disinclined to speculate) had entered the house in our absence and rifled every drawer and cupboard in the place. His actual takings amounted, it appeared, to a few silver tea-spoons and the landlady's cairngorm brooch.

I comforted her as best I could, and when she had recovered enough to begin insisting that we must all sit down to tea and cake together, I took the constables' advice and went to look in my own room to see if anything was missing from there. With sinking heart, I lifted my mattress. The ugly but valuable cow-creamer was gone.

 

Saying that he had grown bored with what the world calls "treasures", in recent months Raffles had divested himself of everything of intrinsic worth that he had ever possessed; and the one thing he did still value – his little stone face – was safe in his pocket. Therefore I was surprised by how badly he took the news that we had been burgled.

"I hope there 's a special place in Hell, with special torments, for a man who'd do such a thing as to break into a respectable woman's house in broad daylight – in _broad daylight,_ Bunny! – and steal the brooch left her by her mother," he said angrily.

I was startled by his vehemence. "There's a special place on earth for them," I pointed out. "It's called prison, and no doubt he'll go there, if he's caught."

"Too good for him," growled Raffles. "Much too good. He wants hanging."

I thought this going a bit far. "I don't know about that," I replied uncomfortably. "If he ought to hang for taking three silver tea-spoons, then instead of doing eighteen months at Wormwood Scrubs I ought to have been hanged for helping you get that pearl. When you think about it, Rafe old boy, we've done worse than he, in our day."

"It's not how much one _gets_ that's the measure of the crime," Raffles insisted hotly. "It's the _intangible_ harm one does! Those spoons and that brooch were the only treasures that poor old lady had in the world! –Not to mention that she's lost her sense of security in her own home. _We_ never took anything the owner couldn't well spare; and we _never_ broke up anyone's peace of mind!"

I was about to ask Raffles how he could possibly know this, when I happened to glance at his face. From it I saw that my friend was bothered by what had happened to a degree that he couldn't well express, nor I comprehend. His face, turned from mine, was flushed, and his brow knit.

Rising, I said hastily, "Well, a soldier's life isn't an easy one, but at least it's honest, eh? –I think I'll go have a look around the local pawn-brokers, and see if that brooch has turned up. If we could get that much back for her, no doubt the poor old lady would feel better."

I left Raffles sitting on the floor of the shed, moodily chewing a straw.

 

Late that night I woke up, overcome by a sense of foreboding.

I went immediately to Raffles's room, and found him gone. A look into his wardrobe told me that certain of his clothes were gone, too– an old, patched coat and trousers, run-over shoes, and a greasy cap he'd kept for use in case he was forced by circumstances to make a sudden escape from London in disguise. Though a reasonable man might have concluded only that my friend was out getting some air, I was for some reason seized by the conviction that he had thought better of our plan to travel to the Cape, and chosen the life of a tramp over that of a soldier. I sat miserably down upon the edge of his bed, doubting in my heart that I'd ever see Raffles again.

I was still sitting there, hours later, when a slight sound at a window and a cold draft of air as he lifted the sash told me that Raffles had returned. I watched as, with the grace of an acrobat, he swung himself silently into the room.

"Oh, hullo, Bunny," he said blankly, when he saw me. "What woke you? You were sleeping like a child when I left."

"Where have you been?" I asked.

His eyes avoided mine. "Out," he replied.

"Where?"

"What does it matter?" he answered me carelessly. "I had some business; that's all. It's nothing to do with you."

"What business? Something to do with that house in Wimbledon?"

"No."

"With our trip to the Cape, then?"

"Oh, no. _That's_ quite settled."

Raffles turned away from me, and casually began to undress.

The tension of the hours of waiting for him (hopelessly, as I had imagined) had left my nerves raw, and these evasions, though characteristic of Raffles, enraged me.

"Well, _what_ , then?" I demanded, my face beginning to burn. "And why is it nothing to do with me? –Oh, I'm used to the fact that you hide things from me, A.J. After all, you've hidden your very _existence_ from me until you needed me to do a job for you again. But in what way have I ever proven myself so unworthy of your confidence that you can't answer a simple question? I woke in the night; you were gone. Now you've returned hours later in that costume. We've been partners – I thought – for many years. _Why won't you tell me where you've been?_ "

Either my words, or the uncharacteristic fury with which I spoke them, took Raffles aback.

His voice muted, he said uncomfortably, "I don't _hide_ things from you. If I don't tell you something, it's for your own good."

"You mean for yours," I bluntly retorted. "In what way could it _ever_ be to my benefit to believe you dead? –But what 's the point of even talking about it? You do what serves your own purposes without any regard for the rest of the world."

Raffles sat down on the edge of his bed and stared at the floor. "You think me selfish," he stated.

"I do," I replied, not bothering to hide my disgust. "I think you very selfish."

It's a terrible thing to humble a friend. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I was ashamed of them.

"Look; I'm sorry," I said hastily. "I didn't mean that. I don't think you're selfish."

Answered Raffles bleakly, "Of course you do."

"No, no," I insisted. "I spoke out of turn. I'm a little wound up about this going to the Cape thing; that's all. If you want the truth, I'm not entirely sure I'm ready to die. –Look: Get some sleep, why don't you? You're all in."

Raffles didn't answer this; and, awkwardly, I turned to go.

As I reached for the door-knob, he blurted suddenly, "I went to find the ferret-faced man."

I stopped in my tracks.

Explained Raffles, "There's a sort of tavern where his kind meet. I went there. If my sources are correct, he's a fellow called ‘Conrad '. Just an ordinary, petty house-breaker, really. You know the type."

I turned back. "How–?" I began.

Admitted Raffles, flushing, "Oh, the regulars talk to me pretty freely. I've been there before." Finally venturing to raise his eyes to mine, he added quickly, "The only reason I've never taken _you_ there is because you don't have a gift for disguise, Bunny. The least slip-up in a place like that could be fatal."

"That's all right," I said.

Continued Raffles, "At the tavern I let on that I had some information that I was willing to sell to the right man, about a profitable crib to crack. I'm going back there tonight. The word will have spread, and I'm hoping this Conrad will take the bait. If he's who I think he is, Bunny; if he's the one who robbed _this_ place, then I'm going to offer to offer him a partnership– my information for a share of what he gets by doing the job."

"A partnership?" I repeated dubiously. "Can you trust him?"

Replied Raffles, faintly smiling, "Not in the least. –Do you want to come with me, old man?"

Startled, I asked, "Tonight?" Remembering that A.J. had just employed the word "fatal" in speaking of the place he was proposing to take me, I hesitated. "I don't know," I ventured cautiously. "As you say, I've no gift for disguise."

His smile broadening, my friend replied, "I think I can safely say that I have gift enough for two, Bunny. If you'll wear what I give you, and keep your mouth _firmly shut_ , we'll be fine. -Come, why don't you? You might enjoy the experience; and I'd be glad – I am _always_ glad – of your company."

 

I accompanied Raffles that night with trepidation, of course; but also with eager anticipation. A visit to a real Thieves' Kitchen, I thought, would provide me a wealth of colorful material that I could use to enliven projected future works of fiction. I could not quite decide between the adjectives "artful" and "ingenious" to describe my own costume of false whiskers and out-at-the-knee trousers; but Raffles's old man's disguise was simply faultless. The "tavern" we were going to, my friend informed me, was in fact unnamed, because unlicensed; but as we wound our ways toward it through unsavory back alleys I decided I would denominate it in my stories, "The Bloody Bones".

At last, down a flight of slimy stairs, we reached the threshold; and, my heart pounding, I took my first look within. My mouth thereupon gaped with wonder– and disappointment.

The men that Raffles had earlier suggested might kill me should I pronounce a single untoward word, could not in fact have easily been distinguished from the respectable Sunday occupants of the rearward pews of any chapel in London.

The tavern (its name now reduced, in my imagination, to "The Cock and Bull") was not a lively place. Not only were there no beatings or murders currently going forward, there was not even much conversation. Men idled peacefully at the makeshift bar, or sat on mismatched chairs around the room's few battered tables, drinking gin and smoking. One man was engaged in reading the newspapers; another pared his nails with a pen-knife no bigger than my own.

As I leaned toward Raffles, intending to inquire (in a whisper, of course) whether we had somehow come to the wrong place, the bar-keep nodded in our direction and growled something that sounded to me like, "Ahr bahr de yawl, Sar?"; to which Raffles replied curtly. I watched as the barman, nodding, poured out drinks for us from an unlabeled bottle, into glasses visibly unclean.

Murmured Raffles, as we carried them with us to an empty table, "Put the gin to your lips for form's sake, Bunny, but whatever you do, don't drink any! It might be all right, or you might go blind. There's no knowing in a place like this."

"Is Conrad here?" I softly asked.

"Not yet. But soon, I hope," Raffles answered.

As soon as we had sat down we were approached by a young man who, but for a certain shiftiness of manner, might have been any honest laborer of small means.

"Ahr bahr de yawl?" he asked politely, indicating the empty chair opposite Raffles; to which Raffles replied, "Har."

I am at a loss to recount their subsequent conversation; or any that followed. One ruffian after another offered himself as a candidate for Raffles's alleged "information", and I understood not five words in a hundred of those spoken. Not only was the parlance as foreign to me as Hindoostani; but since I lacked A.J.'s facility at appearing to drink while in fact throwing the contents of my glass neatly over one shoulder, I was forced, over the course of the next few hours, actually to _consume_ some part of every one of the many glasses of gin set before me. The stuff was raw, potent, but (truth be told) not altogether objectionable as a tipple. Two or three times (it may have been more), I put the glass to my lips merely to wet them, only to discover that I had absentmindedly already finished my dram. In consequence, I became (I will not deny it) a little tipsy.

Despite this, I knew by a slight stiffening of A.J.'s spine when the long-looked-for "Conrad" finally came to our table.

On seeing the miserable, undersized little miscreant who had made off with my precious cow-creamer, I'm afraid I briefly forgot myself. Openly glaring at him, I announced to the room at large, "Not a ferret; a _rat_." Then I turned and demanded of Raffles, "Don't you think so? That's not a ferret's face. A ferret's got more of a nose to him."

"Oy?" asked Conrad blankly; while under the table, Raffles kicked me sharply. I subsided.  
  
Eyeing me with annoyance, A.J., in the guise of a wily old lag who has found himself too decrepit to function any longer as a second-storey man, then began to question Conrad closely. What he discovered (of course), was that Conrad was _the very man_ for the job he had on offer! Conrad professed himself delighted to hear this, and the two then entered into a protracted negotiation as to the worth of Raffles's information. The sticking point, as I understood it, was that A.J. insisted that Conrad must bring a partner to the job, and the little worm was unwilling to divide the take three ways instead of two.  
  
Hot, bored, and unable to understand half of what either man was saying, I allowed my mind to wander.  
  
Suppose, I found myself thinking, that Raffles and I were to perform _really well_ as soldiers in South Africa? I didn't see _myself_ as the type to win medals; but A.J. certainly was– particularly under the stimulus of that Egyptian thing in his pocket. And if he _did_ win a medal – an important one – might all be forgiven back in England? We could come home then, with Raffles restored to life (so to speak), and me to honor, my conviction generously deemed "spent" for the sake of my heroic friend. In my mind's eye I saw the two of us in a grand room at some royal palace (Holyrood, for choice. I have always liked Scotland), the dear old queen, her eyes wet, offering her hand to England's newly-pardoned prodigal sons.  
  
Afterwards there would be cricket (Her Majesty would naturally want to see Raffles play), followed by a gala dinner, perhaps. A.J. would sit at the queen's right hand and charm her as he charmed everyone, with his stories.  
  
Meanwhile, the German ambassador, consigned to a low place at the table, would chew off both ends of his mustache in an impotent fury.  
  
Carried away by this mental image, I briefly forgot where I was. Staggering to my feet, I raised my glass and cried out, "Gentlemen, the Queen! God bless her!"  
  
The room's denizens first started, then turned in a body to stare.  
  
After an instant's agonizing silence, Raffles (withering me, meanwhile, with a covert glare), declared gayly, "Cor! 'E's gorn orf agin!" and pulled me back down– hard. Under the cover of the laughter his remark elicited, my friend then informed me through gritted teeth and a false smile that I must "sit there and _shut up_ , you fool!"  
  
Flushing, I nodded.  
  
A.J. and Conrad (that detestable insect) then resumed their conversation. Half listening, I found that Raffles was now providing the larcenous reptile with highly detailed instructions as to how he might best rob a certain house.  
  
This house Raffles described as a modern one, set near enough the road to make for quick comings and goings, and landscaped with hedges that might, according to him, have been purposely placed to provide cover for someone wanting to get to a window unseen. On the left side (the most private from the street) there was a small balcony at an upper window, with a drain-pipe conveniently adjacent. A.J. pointed out that, though the house was brick-built, it had decorative stone quoins at its corners extending near enough the aforementioned drain-pipe to be accessed as foot-holds, if needed.  
  
There was a place answering to this descriptions in a road not far from the one on which we had our lodgings; and in passing it once, Raffles and I had actually discussed the very architectural features he was now naming to Conrad. But just as I was about to interrupt to ask whether I was correct in assuming that this house was the one he meant, A.J. happened to mention that the place was occupied by a single gentleman who invariably spent every evening at his club.  
  
"Sarvants slips out to the pub soon's 'e leaves," asserted my friend, in a confidential undertone.  
  
From this I saw that I had been quite wrong in my surmise that I knew the house referred to. The brick house _I_ had been thinking of was occupied, to my certain knowledge, by a retired Army colonel and his two or three strapping grown sons. I knew of no evidence that any of them were inveterate club-men, or that their servants were slack.  
  
I lost all interest in the conversation after that, and returned to my dreaming. By the time A.J. and the loathsome Conrad had finished their business, Raffles had – in my imagination – been awarded nothing less than the Victoria Cross, while Parliament had passed a law that henceforth, drawing-and-quartering would be the punishment for cow-creamer thieves.  
  
Unfortunately, something of what I felt toward the execrable Conrad must have shown in my face, for when a sudden silence woke me from my reverie, I saw that he was studying me mistrustfully with his beady, rat-like eyes. Mutely, I turned to Raffles, only to have him look coldly away. In this matter, I was clearly on my own.  
  
Smiling weakly, I made a stab at the local vernacular. "Ahr bahr de yawl, Sar?" I ventured.  
  
"Hoy, don't moind if I do," replied Conrad, brightening. Apparently reassured, he signaled to the bar-keep, who hurried over with the gin-bottle.  
  
A.J. made _me_ pay for the round.  
  
  
  
Next day I was ill (it must have been influenza), and contrary to his usual custom, Raffles for once let me lie in peace. I was aware that he went out during the day, wearing, for some reason, a suit of nice tweeds and a mustache like a grenadier's, but I cared little about it. Toward evening, I was better, and on A.J.'s advice I rose and joined him at the parlor table for tea.  
  
"Now, Mr. Harry," urged Mrs. Shound; "you just eat up that nice egg I boiled special for you. You've had nothing all day and young men must keep up their strength. Isn't that so, Mr. Rafe?"  
  
"Unquestionably," replied Raffles, shoving the egg-spoon into my unwilling hand. "Especially young men who are going out soon to take one last bicycle ride before they sell their machines."  
  
My stomach heaved at the sight of the gelatinous mass in the egg-cup. "I don't believe I want an egg," I said faintly. "I don't believe I want a bicycle ride, either."  
  
"Nonsense," said Raffles heartily. "We're leaving for Cape-Town tomorrow, remember. Of _course_ you want to ride." Winking, he added, "It will be our last chance to catch those thieves who go about on bicycles."  
  
"Oh," cried our landlady, groping at once for her handkerchief– for any allusion to her lost valuables quickly brought her to tears. "I wish you would catch them! Never a day goes by I don't think of that ferret-faced fellow! That brooch was my mother's, you know. She left it me."  
  
Said I, cautiously nibbling a scone, "I doubt it was the bicycle thieves who took your brooch, Mrs. Shound."  
  
"Of course it was!" my friend exclaimed. "I saw bicycle tracks all around behind the garden shed, and the footprints of two men."  
  
"Did you indeed?" said our landlady. "It was clever of you to look!"  
  
"Perhaps I should be a detective," suggested Raffles. To me he added, aside, "Eat your egg, Bunny. Don't make me force it down your throat."  
  
Reluctantly, I picked up the egg-spoon again. "It doesn't seem to have occurred to you, _Inspector_ ," I said sourly, "that those tracks you saw might have been our own."  
  
"Oh, no; they certainly weren't ours," replied A.J. promptly. "These were Dunlop tracks. Both of _our_ bicycles have Palmer tyres." To Mrs. Shound he explained, "Palmers _like ours_ leave an entirely different track from Dunlop tyres."  
  
"Do they? How very interesting!"  
  
"The thieves, I'm told, get about on either Beeston Humbers, or perhaps Sunbeams," Raffles shamelessly added. "Whereas Bunny and I both ride Swifts. –Don't we, Bunny?"  
  
I saw what A.J. was about, of course; and approved; though my head was too sore for me to offer him much assistance in deceiving our landlady. It was only with great effort that I managed to say so much as, "Swifts. Yes."  
  
"And did you tell all this to the constables?" asked Mrs. Shound eagerly. "I should think it's just the sort of information they want to have."  
  
Raffles adjusted his expression to suggest chagrin.  
  
"I forgot," he admitted, with shammed rue. "And as Harry and I are leaving so soon, I doubt I'll have time, now." After allowing Mrs. Shound to regret this with him for a moment, A.J. permitted his countenance to lighten. Winningly, he begged, "You tell them for me, will you, Mrs. Shound? Make sure they know about the Beeston Humber and the Sunbeam (a Royal, I believe it is) especially."  
  
Fluttering with excitement, our landlady promised to do so.  
  
  
As night fell, Raffles and I got on our bicycles one last time– to take them to their new owners, Raffles told Mrs. Shound.  
  
"So you found a buyer for them, did you?" I remarked as I mounted. "How much will we get?"  
  
"No money at all," replied A.J. "Something better!"  
  
"What could be better than money?" I wanted to know. My head still ached, and my tone was weary.  
  
Replied Raffles, a sudden glint coming into his eye, "What's better than money? Why, _vengeance_ , of course!"  
  
Muttered I, "I think I'd rather get money."  
  
"There might be some money in it, too," Raffles acknowledged. "We'll see how things play out."  
  
Remembering the tweeds and dapper mustache, I asked, "Is that where you went earlier? To sell our machines?"  
  
"Earlier I went to pay a call," Raffles told me. "Too bad you were– ill, Bunny. I could have used a second public-school accent to back up my own. Retired army officers are apt to be such snobs!"  
  
Beyond these enigmatical remarks, I could get no further information from him. Instead, as we rode along, Raffles spoke gaily of the many jobs our trusty bicycles had carried us to, and safely home from, in the preceding months, pointing out a few houses we had visited in the dead of night.  
  
I had little to say in return. It weighed heavily upon me that I would leave a tarnished name behind me in England, and that if one day I returned (and I could hardly bear to think I would _not_ return), it might only be to discover that in our absence the mystery of the "bicycle thieves" had finally been solved. If that should happen, I supposed that Raffles and I could expect to be arrested upon landing; and the only thing I could hope for after that would be to catch an occasional glimpse of my friend as we were marched for exercise round and round the track in a crowded prison yard.  
  
"Here?" I blurted, when I saw to where A.J. had led me. It was the brick house with the stone quoins that I had imagined I heard him describing to that sneaking excrescence, Conrad.  
  
Raffles put his finger to his lips. Guiding my bicycle through a gap in the shrubbery, he whispered, "I need you to stay here and watch, Bunny. I have to leave for a little while; but when I come back, I shall want to know every detail of what transpired in my absence. All right?" Silently, he pointed above us, where, at a little distance from where we stood there was a small balcony, with drain-pipe adjacent.  
  
As I stared at Raffles, open-mouthed, it occurred to me for the first time that he was wearing his "working clothes"– all black, and close-fitting.  
  
"Where–?" I began; but in reply he only urged again, "Watch carefully! And not a word must you say, no matter what you see! –Don't fail me in this, Bunny," he warned.  
  
"I know how to keep my mouth shut," I replied, a little resentfully.  
  
Smiling, Raffles agreed, "Yes, you do. –Watch and wait, Bunny. I'll be back as quickly as I can."  
  
And, leaving me standing alone between our two bicycles, a Beeston Humber and a Royal Sunbeam, both with Dunlop tyres, he ran off.  
  
  
For perhaps a quarter of an hour all was quiet; and then the front door of the house opened, and the butler, a youngish, well set-up specimen of the breed, stuck out his head and had a quick look around. After this, the colonel emerged wearing evening dress. He walked straight down the path and out the gate, leaving it ajar behind him.  
  
This brief spurt of activity concluded, there was nothing to look at again, and yawning, I found a way to sit and yet still keep the balcony in view.  
  
From my new position I didn't notice that the pilfering rodent Conrad had arrived with his friend until the two had actually begun to shinny up the drain-pipe, at which point it was too late for me to indulge my impulse to burst upon them and beat my cow-creamer out of them with my fists. Instead, I watched as they struggled, grunting, up to the balcony, one after the other. There they apparently found the french doors leading into the house left carelessly unlocked. They went in, and I looked at my watch. Raffles had been gone for an hour.  
  
All was quiet again. I debated with myself whether I might risk a brief nap, but decided against it, given A.J.'s declaration that he expected me to recount _every detail_ of what I had seen when he returned. To keep myself alert, I entertained a short fantasy in which I won such acclaim for the book I planned to write about my experiences at the front – once I'd had any – that the time I'd done in Wormwood Scrubs was transformed from a great personal shame into one of the more dashing aspects of my new writer's persona. Forced by second thoughts to acknowledge this fancy as improbable, I was about to return to the better one of Raffles and the Victoria Cross when the sound of footsteps hurrying toward the house brought me cautiously to my feet.  
  
It was the colonel returning– evidently in great haste. It seemed he was expected: Before he had quite reached the front door, the brawny butler had already opened it to him.  
  
As it closed I heard the colonel shout, " _Now_ , boys!" and even at the distance, I could make out the thunder of feet on the stairs within.  
  
More shouting-and then I heard the unmistakable smack of fists against flesh. Following this, there were cries– rather piteous ones, I would have found them, had I not guessed whose cries they undoubtedly were. The colonel's voice barked, "Stay where you are, or I'll shoot!" and the piteous cries turned to abject snivels. The cow-creamer thief's snivel was loudest, I noted with satisfaction.  
  
Just as someone added, "The constables are on their way!", I felt a hand close upon my arm, and turned to see Raffles at my side, grinning broadly.  
  
"Just made it!" he murmured, cocking his head to better catch the commotion in the room above. "I was afraid I'd miss it all." Tugging at my sleeve, he added, "We'd better go now, though. The police will be here any minute."  
  
I reached for the handlebars of my bicycle.  
  
"No, leave it," said Raffles. "The bobbies will want them for evidence."  
  
"What evidence?"  
  
"Evidence that Conrad and his partner are the notorious bicycle thieves, of course," Raffles said. "You wanted to be able to go to South Africa with no unfinished business left behind to dog you, didn't you, Bunny? So there you are. Conrad and his friend have been caught in the very act of robbing a house; a Beeston Humber and a Royal Sunbeam – with Dunlop tyres – hidden just below where they made entry. At any moment now, they'll be arrested, and once they're in custody, the thefts will stop. It's perfect."  
  
As we stepped into the street – and resisting a rising tide of elation in my breast – I suggested cautiously, "It seems thin evidence, though. Conrad might easily say that the bicycles are nothing to do with them, and there's nothing else to tie them to the jobs we committed."  
  
"Nothing," Raffles agreed, "save certain items that will soon be discovered in their rooms– items known to have been taken from the houses of Professor M_______ and a certain Mrs. Shound of Richmond. –That was what I've been doing this past hour, Bunny. I was breaking into their rooms and planting evidence for the police to find."  
  
"Oh, well done!" I exclaimed, my satisfaction now entire.  
  
A.J. smiled– but behind his smile I thought I detected some little shadow of regret.  
  
"But _what_ evidence?" I begged. "Not your stone face, surely?" My heart sank to think that, for my sake, my friend had given up something so admittedly precious to him. I gripped his shoulder, and felt it shrug with pretended indifference.  
  
"I've held it in my hands, Bunny," Raffles said. "I've held immortality in my very hands. A man can't ask for more than that. I'm right to let my little ‘Ozymandias' go for such a worthy cause."  
  
Very moved, I said nothing for some time. Then I ventured, "That's _one_ bit of evidence. But unless Conrad and the other man lived together, you needed something for each of their rooms."  
  
Said Raffles, "As a matter of fact, I went intending to get Mrs. Shound's cairngorm back for her. It's a hideous object, but she seems to like it. But, like you, I realized that to fix the case against both Conrad and his friend, I needed two things for the constables to discover; so I contented myself with moving the brooch to a very prominent place in Conrad's room. The bobbies are sure to see it at once, and when they do, no doubt they'll return it to its rightful owner."  
  
"Conrad did take it, then?" I asked.  
  
"Oh, yes; it was him, all right."  
  
"Then I'm glad to think he'll suffer for it," I said.  
  
"From what _I_ heard, he's suffering for it _now_!" laughed Raffles. "The colonel is certainly a liberal employer. He even let his butler have a blow or two!"  
  
We walked on and on, taking the longest way back to our lodgings, and telling each other over again and again the whole story of how Raffles had tricked that shifty little rat, Conrad. It was a night I won't forget. A.J. laughed and laughed, as only _he_ could ever laugh; his face and step equally light.  
  
"This is the one of your stories that I truly look forward to reading, Bunny," said my friend finally. "Don't exaggerate and end it with Conrad being hanged, though. It's better to think of him in prison, wondering every day how on earth anyone would ever imagine that he would steal a little broken face of basalt instead of a silver-table full of plate!"  
  
Then he added, "I haven't forgotten that I promised you money for the bicycles, Bunny. I may be selfish, but I never lie. Here it is."  
  
From his pocket, Raffles produced my cow-creamer– as ugly as ever; yet somehow grown very dear to me. He had taken it, and left the little Egyptian face in its place.  
  
"You're not selfish," I said huskily. "The very opposite of it, in fact. This is English, you know. Might be worth quite a bit."  
  
  
Next morning, we took leave of Mrs. Shound.  
  
In presenting each of us with a pair of socks she'd knitted – desperately itchy, and I feared, much undersized – she cried, "Such good gentlemen! I don't know as I've ever had lodgers before I was so fond of, or who was so good to me, like sons."  
  
"And you say you'll have your brooch back any day, Mrs. Shound?" inquired Raffles, submitting to this lady's third or fourth embrace.  
  
"Any day," she confirmed happily. "It's only wanted as evidence at the trial of them two dirty thieves, and then it'll be brought to me. –I'm only sorry it wasn't you and Mr. Harry who caught those fellows. There was a reward in it, you know."  
  
"Which you didn't get," said Raffles, smiling.  
  
"No," Mrs. Shound said regretfully. "The police already knew about the kinds of bicycles, and the tyres and all."  
  
(I shivered at this information, to think how close Raffles and I had come to being caught!)  
  
"My spoons was never found, but don't you mind about that," she added. "I only mainly kept them as a little something I might pawn if I needed money someday. -But I know how to work. I can take care of myself without such as that."  
  
Dear old soul! For what else did anyone keep silver but as insurance against a poor and comfortless old age? As far as eating and drinking are concerned, tin or steel serve just as well.  
  
"Here's something for you, Mrs. Shound," I said, fumbling in my valise. "An old family piece. I want you to have it."  
  
Raffles's glance, as he looked at me, was warm.  
  
Our landlady – now our former landlady – bashfully refused the gift, though not with much vigor.  
  
"No, no: Take it," I urged, suppressing a sigh. "It'd never survive the trip to the Cape anyway."  
  
Raffles joined his voice to mine, and at last Mrs. Shound consented to receive the cow-creamer– though with assurances that it would be mine again anytime I asked for it. "With all them thieves and what-not about, I'll keep it safe under my mattress for you," she promised. As we left, she called after us to thank us again.  
  
  
"Off we go, Bunny," cried Raffles, as we turned from the gate. "South Africa and glory await!"  
  
I pulled out my entire pocket's contents, and looked.  
  
"Above what I'll need for the journey, I've got about ten shillings to my name," I announced. "But thanks to you, I need no longer fear to feel the hand of the law upon my shoulder. As I see it, that makes me very rich. –Allow a rich man to buy you one last pint at an English pub, Raffles?" I invited.  
  
"Why not?" replied Raffles. "We'll drink to glory."  
  
"To friendship," said I.  
  
"To glorious friendship," he countered.  
  
And so we did.


End file.
